A/N: Hey guys here's another chapter. Hope you all enjoy it. I'm left with about 2-3 chapters before this story finishes (sobs). Once again, thanks for all the lovely reviews, follows and favourites.

Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss and ACD own Sherlock. Obviously.

Recap: John was attacked on his way back from Molly's house after having dinner with her. Sherlock realises who it was and rushes over to Molly's place.

SURPRISES AND INSIGHTS

He mustn't panic.

He must not panic.

That was what he kept telling himself after he had flung a bewildered person out of his way, thrown himself into a taxi and directed the driver to Molly's flat.

Fear would most definitely not help in this situation. The most logical thing to do was to wait until he got to Molly's house, assess the situation and think of a way out.

If only it were that easy.

The image of Molly crumpled on the ground, her eyes closed in agony as Richard towered over her with a glint of victory in his eyes scorched a permanent place in Sherlock's mind, latching on like a parasite.

He was certain that it was Richard who had attacked John in the alleyway. He remembered that the revolting man was suffering from myopia, and a bad case of it as well, judging by how thick his lenses were – that explained the glasses that John had saw. Furthermore, he was such a possessive and jealous person that Sherlock was sure he hadn't taken too well to seeing Molly with another man. If he had to guess, Richard had probably been following Molly around too, watching her every move, waiting for the right opportunity to claim her for his own.

How could he have missed that crazed look in Richard's eyes when he had met him?

How could he have thought that Richard would give up easily and leave her alone?

The mere thought of Richard trailing behind Molly for god knows how long made him sick to the stomach and he dug his fingers into his palm to focus. He was dangerously close to giving in to his fear and that was not ideal. Especially not right now.

Anxiety bubbled furiously in him as he ran up the stairs to Molly's flat, his footsteps echoing loudly into the empty silence below. He stopped when he reached her door, pressing his ear to the cool brown wood, expecting to hear something that gave hint to an intruder in the house.

Nothing.

It was completely silent.

The image of Molly lying on the floor flooded into his mind again and without a second thought, he proceeded to pick the lock, succeeding in just a matter of seconds, marvelling at how steady his fingers were. He pushed the door open apprehensively, placing his feet lightly on the ground as he treaded into her house, his eyes scanning her living room, fearing the worst.

But it was empty.

There was no lunatic pressing a knife to Molly's throat.

There was no Molly on the ground with her hair tangled in a mess as she struggled to get out of reach from Richard's abusive hands.

All that was present was her furniture.

Sherlock was about to call out her name when he heard it.

A loud thud that emerged from the bathroom, followed by a sharp yelp, the sound jarring amidst the silence that permeated the flat.

His breath hitched and a shiver ran down his spine as he ran towards the bathroom, not caring about anything as he threw his entire body towards the door to force it open. All his thoughts were focused on getting to Molly and possibly wrapping his fingers around Richard's neck. He winced slightly as he stumbled onto the cold tiled floor, the hard contact of the bathroom door ripping through his shoulder.

The next few seconds were a complete blur.

He registered a high-pitched shriek that made the hair on his back stand. His first thought was that he was too late, Molly was already gravely injured. Why else would she scream like that? The realisation sent a piercing sensation right through his chest.

He desperately tried to focus his eyes on the scene before him but before he could even stand properly, something hard hit the side of his head. Sherlock grunted in pain and attempted to get on his feet once more while rubbing his temple, panic rising within him like a tsunami.

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice suddenly hissed angrily at him.

Wait, why was Molly angry with him? He was here to save her, for heaven's sake.

He shook his head to clear the stars that were clouding his vision and was startled to discover a dripping wet Molly Hooper wrapped in a towel, a shampoo bottle in her raised hand, staring furiously down at him.

Oh.

"What are you doing in my bathroom?" she shrieked, desperately trying to cover her body as well as she could with her towel, which was unfortunately rather thin and small. Sherlock's face reddened slightly when he saw how the fabric clung tightly to her frame, emphasising the curves that he had visualised so often in his embarrassing dreams recently.

He stood up quickly and turned around, giving her a moment of privacy. He couldn't help but feel very stupid. He, the world's only consulting detective, had just burst into someone's bathroom while she was having a bath because he thought that she was at the mercy of some lunatic. His usually sharp and clear mind had been clouded by fear and panic because he cared deeply about the person who was standing in front of him, currently wrapped in a towel and probably wanting to slap him for his untimely intrusion.

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very warm. "I came to check on you," he said with more confidence than he actually felt, trying to appear dignified.

"In my bathroom?!" Molly asked incredulously. She had hastily slipped into her bathrobe and was feeling much less exposed now, although her cheeks were still burning with embarrassment.

"I heard a thud," he replied, refusing to meet her bewildered gaze. "What made the sound?"

"I accidentally slipped when I was getting out of the bathtub," Molly frowned, rubbing her sore knees absently. "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

She accidentally slipped, you idiot. Oh stupid stupid stupid!

So her fall had been the blasted sound that he had heard, and he had jumped to the worst possible conclusion in a heartbeat. He had a sudden urge to laugh at his own stupidity.

He looked at Molly and realised that she was waiting for an answer. Yes, why was he here? To save her from Richard, of course. But Richard wasn't here. Not right now anyway. What if the man had only wanted to scare John away from Molly but not actually hurt her? No, that wasn't right. He had met many people like Richard before – the overly obsessive types who hated the people whom they had claimed as their own to interact with others. If those people couldn't belong to them, then no one else could have them as well. It was textbook, really – he had encountered many murders that stemmed from such jealousy. Those cases were usually dull and could be solved in a matter of seconds. So this meant that Richard would definitely find Molly one day, when stalking her alone wouldn't be enough, when looking at her from a distance was too much to handle. One day, he would need to talk to her again, to touch her, to claim her as his own both physically and emotionally. The worst part was that he already knows where she lives. The thought of this made Sherlock uneasy. He needed to get Molly to someplace safe before Richard breaks down and comes to find her.

He made a quick decision.

Molly stared at Sherlock with an opened mouth. She wasn't sure if she had heard him right. "Come again?"

"I need you to pack your things and come to 221B with me," he repeated, pulling her out of the bathroom and into her bedroom.

"Why?" she asked, completely confused.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls before he started explaining everything to her. About how John was attacked by someone who could only be Richard. About how he was positive that Richard was stalking her and that he was going to want his presence to be known one day, possibly hurting her in the process. "It's irrational for you to move into a hotel room since there is room at Baker Street. You can live with us for the time being, until we stop this man," he said.

Molly stayed silent all throughout Sherlock's explanation. The blood had drained from her face at the mention of Richard and she felt weary. Was this man ever going to leave her alone?

"I knew that someone was stalking me," she told him.

Sherlock's eyes turned alert at her pronouncement. He stared at her in surprise. "What? Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"There wasn't anyone to tell," she answered softly.

A look akin to guilt crossed his face at her words. She saw him avert his eyes to the ground, a small sigh escaping his lips.

"I am sorry, Molly," he said quietly, his voice so full of sincerity that Molly's eyes widened in astonishment. She rarely heard him speak in this soft tone. In fact, she had only heard him like this once – when he had apologised to her during that horrible Christmas party years ago.

"Sorry for what?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.

"For ignoring you for the past 2 weeks," he answered truthfully, straightforward and to the point.

"Why did you ignore me, Sherlock? Did I do something wrong? You should tell me if I did."

He shook his head. "It wasn't you, Molly. I just needed some time to…understand some things," he said mysteriously.

Molly gave him a questioning look, but it seemed like he wasn't going to elaborate further. He walked over to her cupboard, flinging pieces of clothing that she regularly wore onto her bed. "Let's pack."

"Sherlock, won't I be a hindrance at your place? You only have 2 bedrooms and they're already occupied."

"You can take my room." Molly wanted to protest but he cut her off. "I don't sleep much anyway, the sofa will do fine for me," he said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. "Where's your cat carrier?"

Molly was ashamed to admit that she had momentarily forgotten about her male tabby, which she could now hear meowing from the kitchen.

"I can't bring Toby along," she said worriedly.

"Why not?"

"He's a bit neurotic. He can't live in another environment. He once clawed every piece of furniture when I placed him in my friend's flat for a few days. He'll destroy 221B."

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes, as if expecting this sort of behaviour from her feline.

Molly frowned, feeling defensive. "I got him from the animal shelter. He was abused before so he doesn't do well in new places. It took me months to get him settled here."

She saw his blue eyes softened somewhat when he heard about Toby's past. "We can get one of your neighbours to feed him then."

Molly nodded, deciding that she would entrust Toby to the care of Mrs Freeman, her widowed neighbour who always had a kind word for everyone.

An hour later, after Molly had given Toby a big cuddle (shedding a few tears in the process) and passed her spare set of keys to Mrs Freeman, both Sherlock and she were on their way to Baker Street.

Molly had just settled herself in Sherlock's bedroom when she heard someone coming up the stairs to 221B.

Curious, she stepped out to take a look and came face to face with Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Both of them had met a few times and she smiled at him in greeting. She saw the surprise on his face when he saw her emerging from Sherlock's bedroom in her pyjamas.

He smiled back before moving over to Sherlock, who was on the sofa with his laptop, passing him a file. "Here you go. Hope you find what you need."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector. I know this isn't your division."

Lestrade's mouth twitched slightly at the mention of his favourite phrase – the one he always used when he wanted to get out of tasks that he didn't really want to do.

"Right, I better get back home now. My wife gets worried if I'm back too late. Night, you two."

"Goodnight," Molly waved to Lestrade as he left the flat. "What's in the file?" she asked, turning to Sherlock.

"Information."

"About?"

"Richard Matthews, if you really want to know."

Molly's interest was piqued. She went to sit by his side, peering at the file as he flipped through the pages, a look of deep concentration etched on his face.

"Hmm, just what I thought," he muttered to himself before turning to face her. "Richard Matthews was married once but his wife divorced him two years ago because his abuse started to escalate after their marriage. She reported him to the authorities and he was jailed for 9 months and diagnosed with Intermittent Explosive Disorder. After his release, he lost his job as an investigative journalist and has been taking up some freelance writing jobs for the past year. The flat you followed him to was not his, it was merely a rental – he hasn't got enough money to have his own house. Just last week, the verdict on his ex-wife's custody battle for his 7 year old son was released. She managed to claim full custody of his child, which was probably the breaking point for him, leading him to start stalking you."

Molly tried to absorb the information as fast as she could. "Wouldn't it be easier to get some officers to his house now to arrest him for harassment of John and me? I know we can't get him on charges of stalking since there's no proof, but John has a badly bruised nose."

Sherlock shook his head. "His credit details show that he had been steadily using up all his money, without much replenishment. Based on my calculations, he was probably evicted from his flat a few days after you went on that date with him. The date with you was his chance at trying to be normal again. He associates you with hope. When you rejected him, he saw it as a denial to let him go back to a normal life. That is why he wants to claim you for his own. He thinks that owning you means that he possesses the chance to rebuild his life again."

"So he could be anywhere now?" Molly asked, her heart sinking.

"Yes. And he's actually quite experienced with the whole stalking thing. Stalked quite a few people in the past for his articles. It wouldn't be that easy to catch him in the act."

Molly sighed, sinking deeper into the sofa. She was fatigued after her long day but she didn't really want to be alone right now. Too many thoughts were running in her head and if she had to admit, she was getting rather frightened.

She glanced at Sherlock, wanting to thank him for helping her, for being such a caring friend. But he was already in his thinking mode, his fingers under his chin and a distant look in his eyes. She smiled fondly at him before grabbing the nearest cushion and clutching it close to her, making herself comfortable. Even though Sherlock wasn't exactly doing anything, his presence was oddly comforting to her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head on the cushion, gradually drifting off to sleep.

Sherlock didn't know when Molly had fallen asleep but he found her that way once he had snapped out of his mind palace.

Her long, brown hair had fallen all over her face and her chest was rising and falling gently, in tandem with her breathing. Her lips were parted slightly and Sherlock thought that she looked serene and peaceful. All the tiredness and worry that he saw in her face before had disappeared entirely. He smiled slightly when he saw her move, burying her face deeper into the cushion and mumbling something incoherent.

He shifted closer to her, wanting to study her more closely. He didn't know why he found her sleeping position fascinating, he just did. Experimentally, he tucked a few strands of her hair behind her ear, enjoying the feel of her hair against his fingers.

The odd, fluttery feeling in his stomach that he had felt at her house two weeks ago returned, and he had a sudden urge to experience the feel of her lips on his again. But it was wrong to kiss her now, of course. Not when she was sleeping peacefully and completely unaware.

So he settled on kissing her forehead instead, his lips lingering on her longer than necessary, revelling in the feeling of her skin. He considered carrying her into the bedroom but knew that it would probably just wake her up. She shivered slightly in her sleep and Sherlock went to retrieve his duvet, covering her with it. Without anything else to occupy him for the night, he sat back down beside her and closed his eyes.

He found her presence to be soothing. Usually, his mind moved too fast for him to get any proper rest. But she seemed to be able to calm his racing thoughts enough and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes fell asleep easily, with Molly Hooper close by.

Unknown to the consulting detective, John had been watching the whole event from the shadows.

He hadn't meant to spy on them. He had awoken suddenly and wanted to get a glass of water. He was just about to enter the kitchen when he saw Sherlock bending over to kiss Molly's forehead.

Something about the way his lips lingered on her skin made John feel as if it was a very private moment for Sherlock. He retreated back into the darkness, watching his friend curiously.

Sherlock looked different. The snarky and harsh exterior that was often present on his face had disappeared. In its place was a tenderness that John had not seen before.

And just like that, John Watson experienced what many would term an epiphany. All the pieces of the puzzle fitted together perfectly and he knew exactly why Sherlock was being such an arse during the past fortnight.

He has feelings for Molly. Oh god, he has feelings for Molly. And he doesn't know what to do about them.

John woke up the next morning with a strong sense of conviction. He was going to have the talk with Sherlock, whether his friend liked it or not.

He went into the living room and saw that Molly had already left for her morning shift at Bart's.

Sherlock was absently plucking at his violin strings, a cup of tea beside him.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Morning," he replied without looking up.

"Molly's at work then?"

"Yes. I called a cab to send her to Bart's."

John sat down beside his friend, taking a deep breath. He was going to have to do this – god knows his friend needed it.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"We need to talk about Molly."

Sherlock's fingers stopped moving and he looked up slowly to stare at John, making John feel slightly uncomfortable. "What about her?"

"Er…I wanted to talk about your…feelings for her."

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "I don't have feelings for her. Don't be absurd, John." He returned to plucking at his violin strings, but John noticed that he was looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Yes you do."

Sherlock shot him a death glare but John was having none of it. "I saw you kissing her yesterday. You, Sherlock! You normally don't do things like that. And you looked so…gentle. So don't deny it."

"I kissed her forehead, not her lips. I believe that's not exactly a testament of my feelings for her. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, John. I do not do feelings. It makes you vulnerable. It is a liability. Always has been and always will be," he replied curtly.

"Really? Love is a liability?" John said angrily, his temper rising. He could not believe this man-child in front of him. Didn't his 'death' teach him anything? "Tell that to the girl who saved your bloody life because she loves you."

Sherlock suddenly became strangely silent. He stopped fiddling with his instrument and looked at the floor.

"You always focus on the disadvantages of love but have you paused to consider the advantages of it as well?" John asked.

"There's nothing wrong with such feelings, Sherlock." John said a little more gently, noticing his friend's discomfort. "It's human you know, to feel such things. And I know that you're capable of love. You pretty much proved that when you stood on the roof of Bart's, willing to jump for all of us."

Sherlock continued to stare at the floor, refusing to look at John. John sighed, deciding that this wasn't exactly going as planned. And he had to be at the clinic for his afternoon shift in an hour. He couldn't sit here and babysit Sherlock while he figured his emotions out. The man was going to have to do it alone.

"I have to go to work now. You think about what I just said." John went into his room to get changed.

Just as he was about to leave the house, John turned back to look at Sherlock, who was still stationary at his spot on the sofa. "She's not going to be here forever you know," he said softly. "One day, she might find a great man and you will lose your opportunity."

And with that, John left for the clinic, fervently hoping that his friend would stop being such a stubborn mule.

Sherlock continued sitting at the sofa long after John left.

He knew that what he felt for Molly was more than mere physical attraction. The way he had burst into her flat yesterday was proof enough. He hadn't considered anything else. All he knew was that he needed to save her because the thought of her gone was too painful to bear.

But that was exactly what had scared him. He had momentarily lost his sharpness, his ability to deduce, because he had allowed his emotions to control him. In his moment of fear, he did not realise that there was no Richard in her house.

In short, he had been stupid.

Still, he couldn't deny that John's words had some truth to them. Molly had proved to him that love could be an advantage. It was her love for him that led her to help him fake his death. She didn't even consider the fact that she could've lost her job and her doctor title when she had helped him.

He was alive because of her love for him. Her love for him.

Sherlock groaned, burying his head in his hands. He felt a headache coming. This was really confusing and he didn't want to think about it anymore.

However, his bloody mind had other ideas and chose this moment to replay John's words.

"She's not going to be here forever you know."

"One day, she might find a great man and you will lose your opportunity."

They were merely words, nothing more.

But somehow, they made his chest ache painfully.

Did you all think that Richard was going to appear now? Did I trick you guys? Muahahaha I feel like an evil Moffat (please don't kill me)!

Thanks for reading, I'll update as soon as I can.

As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. :)